


Family Matters

by silkskin



Category: A Crown of Candy - Fandom, Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 05: A Crown of Candy, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Espionage, First Meetings, Gen, Pre-Canon, Snapshots, War, it's calmethar if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26491252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkskin/pseuds/silkskin
Summary: The first time Calroy meets one of Prince Amethar’s sisters, he doesn’t even realise it.(or: introductions, foreshadowing, and first meetings. Calroy meets each of the Rocks sisters.)
Relationships: Calroy Cruller & Amethar Rocks, Calroy Cruller & Citrina Rocks, Calroy Cruller & Lazuli Rocks, Calroy Cruller & Rococoa Rocks, Calroy Cruller & Sapphria Rocks
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30





	Family Matters

**Author's Note:**

> god. this started off as a quick 90 min fic prompt but then i got way too invested and now it’s 5k and i’ve spent the past two days writing it. it’s still kinda messy and probably incomprehensible to anyone who isn't as fixated on calroy as i am but i absolutely refuse to look at it anymore bc i’m trying to practice not being a brutal perfectionist!!! which is the main reason why i’m so painstakingly slow at writing and rarely ever finish/post fics. 
> 
> so, before i chicken out and deliberate on it for another two days, here’s this thing! it hasn't been fully proofread yet, and the pacing is all over the place thanks to the aforementioned 'it was meant to be a mini prompt' but i hope u guys enjoy!
> 
> (i don't imagine calroy as a cake which i think becomes pretty apparent but i also don't describe him that much in this fic so. feel free to do so?)

The first time Calroy meets one of Prince Amethar’s sisters, he doesn’t even realise it.

He’s in one of the med tents post-battle, doing his best to stay conscious as his leg flares with a piercing agony, his whole body exhausted from combat and from the wound that now mars his calf and thighs. The healer tending to his leg pours a sickly-sweet smelling tincture onto it, and Calroy hisses loudly as the pain heightens, digging his nails into his palms. The torn flesh of his calf burns under the liquid, leg shaking violently. It’s a deep wound, one that had put him out of commission for the majority of the battle, but even worse is that it’s a careless one, caused by a stray Cola-Mentos mine he had stupidly forgotten to watch for. An already humiliating display made more so by the fact that the Prince of Candia he had only met but a few months ago had offered to carry him back to the med tent, and now refuses to leave his side as he’s attended to.

The healer whispers something under her breath, and a moment later the pain subsides slightly, softening to a dull throb under the golden glow beneath her hands. Calroy breathes heavy, fists clenched, as the woman continues to clean the wound.

“That’s it for the pain, I promise,” she says finally taking her hands away, voice far more cheery than Calroy believes she has the right to sound. She reaches up to squeeze his shoulders, voice gentle and welcoming. “Don’t get too down about it. You fought well out there.”

“Bet you say that to all the men,” Calroy says on instinct, and then rubs at his eyes, “Sorry. Pain. Delirious. I don’t even—” He waves his hand dismissively, as if in explanation.

The healer laughs, thankfully, and it rings strangely familiar, bright as bells. “Only the ones that have to be carried in bridal-style by royalty,” she says, tilting her head towards Amethar, who’s waiting anxiously beside them.

Calroy winces internally. “Ugh. Yeah.”

“I mean it,” she says, and Calroy finds himself soothed by her voice, unusually calming and sweet in a way that make her routine condolences sound far more genuine than false pity. “There’s a reason why Prince Amethar likes you.”

“…Thank you.”

She nods, and begins to wrap fresh gauze around his leg. She’s done a moment later, standing and giving Calroy a few brief words about keeping weight off of it, to stretch and change the bandages every few days. Calroy thanks her again, and then flops backwards on the cot, exasperated.

Amethar’s talking to him soothingly, trying to distract him from the pain, but Calroy’s hardly listening, which is probably treason in its own right. He’s too busy thinking about how it’s going to be at least a month of rest before he can even begin to fight again, a week before he can walk without assistance, and he’s trying to reschedule events in his head, meetings with Donetta he’ll have to miss, letters he’ll have to send to his Ceresian connections.

There’s a pause in Amethar’s speech, and Calroy turns his focus back to the moment at hand. Amethar is looking at him, expectant. Calroy, fuse already short from the pain, can only just manage to hold back his frustration in the face of Amethar’s dopey grin.

“What?”

“You didn’t notice,” he says, cryptically. “She’d be happy.”

Calroy goes for baffled, tucks his irritation behind a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t notice what, Amethar?”

Amethar bites his lip, and does not answer, relishing in keeping this particular secret. Calroy has to make an active effort to unclench his jaw before asking again. He does his best to sit up even while his leg aches, shoving Amethar playfully. “C’mon, man, you can’t just say that and refuse to answer.”

“Your healer.”

“…Yes? What about her?” Calroy says, prompting. He had been too busy fending off the pain to take notice, beyond her blue headscarf and gold skin. Her magic _had_ been a little brighter than he’d expected, but Candian healing magic came in all sorts, sparking differently in each person. She might’ve been from the Sweetening Path, or the Bulb, like Saint Citrina—

Oh. _Oh._

“Holy _shit_ ,” Calroy says, whipping his head round to try and find the figure again, only to find her gone from their tent.

Amethar’s laugh bubbles up from his chest, shaking his shoulders with delight, and Calroy blames his exhaustion for the smile that finds its way to his lips. “You should’ve seen your face!”

“Princess Citrina—what is she doing here—you didn’t even greet your own sister!” he says, whacking Amethar lightly on the arm in accusation, even as he finds himself chuckling too.

“She told me not to!” Amethar says, and Calroy identifies that familiar sound—the way Amethar’s eyes crinkle and his peals of laughter ring like bells—as the laugh he had recognised in Citrina. Amethar carries that same rosy air, the easy sincerity and warmth. The family resemblance is so striking that it makes Calroy angry he missed it. “She likes to come to the frontlines and help out, but hates the formality and attention.”

Something roils in Calroy’s gut at that, that casual dismissal of the ceremony. As if the power their royalty holds is just a _nuisance_. He hates it, hates the way Amethar says it, hates the way he doesn’t recognise the weight of the crown even when he’s wearing it. Wants to dig hungry into that aura of undivided power until he can taste it, until his fingers strike gold.

“ _Really_?" Calroy says, sarcastic, falling back into conversation. “Hates formality and attention, huh? Now where have I heard that before?”

Amethar grins. “Yeah, but you know I love attention.”

Calroy sighs in agreeement, rubbing his eyes in mortification. He doesn’t know how he’s going to endear himself to the Rocks if a little pain has him missing the fact that Princess Citrina herself was tending to his wounds. “I can’t believe she had to see me get carried by you. I can’t believe I _said_ that. She’s a _Primogen_ , Bulb above. She definitely hates me.”

Amethar laughs again, not unkindly. “Citrina? Nah. She loves everyone. Plus, you’re my friend. They have to like you, because I do.”

Calroy hums, grateful, but not for the reason Amethar thinks. He smiles. It seems that every day Calroy is reminded that he chose the right sibling. _Have to_ , indeed. For all Amethar complains about his status, he sure holds it down to a tee. Practically radiates it. Calroy had known who Amethar was the moment he’d met him in the trenches, throwing his weight around with such ignorance Calroy would’ve preferred outright malice to it.

That power—well. It’s why he’s here, isn’t it?

Calroy takes Amethar’s offered arm as he limps out of the medical tent and thinks belligerently of the day he can stand without it.

Archmage Lazuli Rocks has met Calroy long before Calroy has ever met her.

“Laz!” Amethar cries, all but running to meet his sister as she steps out of one of the hallways of Castle Manylicks. Calroy, having wormed his way up in Amethar’s favour, had been asked to accompany him to the tactical meeting they were holding over the troops of Gumdrop Pass. Lazuli had arrived here a couple days before them, foresight keeping her ever eager. He’s not worried, he swears. But he does have to stop himself from reaching up to brush off his clothes for the hundredth time—a nervous tick he needs to unlearn. Even Amethar had noticed.

Lazuli’s head perks up, turns to her brother and lets him sweep her up into a hug. The herald’s brash trumpeting, in the midst of announcing her entrance, peters out rather comically, and Calroy gives him a sympathetic look.

Lazuli laughs, hugging her brother back, adjusting her glasses when he finally lets go. “Amethar, how are you? How’s your shoulder healing? You know if you don’t let it rest up it’ll freeze up during the battle.”

“I didn’t actually,” Amethar grins. “I don’t even remember telling you about it. It’s fine, Laz, promise.”

She sighs, and then, “Cal, how’s his shoulder healing?”

Calroy stammers, answers falling from his mouth out of surprise rather than intention. “I—It’s fine, though he needs to stop sparring so much.” He furrows his eyebrows in shock, “Sorry, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself?”

Amethar, caught between amusement and betrayal, makes no move to help Calroy’s floundering. Instead, he steps back, a shit-eating grin on his face, and it’s all Calroy can do not to shoot him a withering glare in front of everybody.

Lazuli frowns, and then exclaims, “Oh! My apologies. Calroy Cruller, I believe? I thought we’d met at the Southern Candy Glades, but I’d forgotten I’d sent a missive to avoid that particular future—Anyway. My apologies, Lord Cruller, I hope I didn’t startle you.”

She offers her hand to shake, and Calroy swallows hard, shoves down the instant distaste he has for the Archmage, and takes it. He forces himself to falls back into his courtly pretences.

“Not at all. It’s an honour to meet you, your highness,” Calroy says, bending to plant a kiss on the back of her hand.

“Likewise,” Lazuli says. “Forgive my moment of forgetfulness, you’re in a great many of Amethar’s futures.”

Calroy laughs charmingly, even as the thought rattles him, fist clenching behind his back. “Your brother does have a certain aura around him. It’s all good things, I hope.”

“Hm,” Lazuli says. Calroy curses internally. He doesn’t know much about Lazuli’s precognition, but sweetened words can only go so far if his deeds to come betray him too early. He’s always known this plan would be a long one, and if he has to plan for Lazuli’s futures, he will.

She turns to Amethar, who’s still grinning rather too gleefully for Calroy’s taste, and says, “Don’t think you’re off the hook, Amethar. No more sparring, not until your shoulder heals.”

“Aw, Laz,” Amethar whines, grin turning into a pout. It’s so childish it makes Calroy want to roll his eyes. But Lazuli just grins, pats him gently on the cheek in an open display of sisterly affection, and something else that Calroy can’t identify squeezes sharp against his chest.

“You’ll survive,” she says, unswayed. “Cal, you’ll tell me if he ever starts sparring again, I hope?”

“Of course,” he says, playing along as Lazuli uses Amethar’s nickname for him so blithely. He feels unsteady on his feet, swept helter-skelter into a family he doesn’t know half as well as they assume from him. He doesn’t know what Lazuli sees in her visions, but if she’s being amiable to him, that’s a good thing. If this family is so willing to accept him without question, he won’t be the one to regret it.

“Hear that, Amethar?” Calroy says, shooting him a saccharine smile. “If you won’t listen to me when I tell you to be responsible, maybe you’ll listen to your sister.”

Amethar grimaces, betrayal written clearly on his face. “I regret introducing the both of you.”

Lazuli lets out a laugh, meeting Calroy’s eyes with gratefulness. She beckons the both of them. “Now, let’s get this strategy meeting over with, shall we?” She winks. “I already know how it’ll end.”

Princess Sapphria Rocks is level, and calm, and so brilliantly sharp behind her naive facade that every interaction with her makes Calroy feel like he’s dancing on needles. It is in conversations with her that Calroy understands the weight of what he’s doing, the lies he has to spin. He knows without a doubt that if any part of his mask slips, it will be all but seconds before Sapphria has it torn from his face.

“Calroy,” she calls, tossing him a pair of sheathed knives to arm himself with. Calroy catches them evenly, attaching them to his belt as Sapphria does the same with her own weapons. They’re stationed on the south edge of Butter Lake, a few miles out from Pangranos. Diplomatic mission, or so they’ve been told to say if asked. In reality, they’re here to retrieve information on a potential weakness in Ceresian politics—a conflict between Imperator Focaccia and a rising low-born warrior, Augustus Ciabatta.

And, well. If Calroy wasn’t distinctly aware that this low-born warrior is his long-time conspirator and benefactor, and that the only reason why Ciabatta has gained any power amongst his troops is because of his access to Calroy’s smuggled weapons, he might not have agreed so readily to this assignment.

Sapphria nods sharp at him, and then they’re off. The night shrouds the both of them with ease, shadows nipping at their feet as they make their way to the city walls, as they crouch beneath the sheafs of wheat that grow stark and angry into the belly of the night. Their spies had told them to meet at an entrance at the east side of the city. The plan is a simple one: to retrieve the stolen documents on the movement of Ceresian troops and the missives between Focaccia and Ciabatta. _Calroy’s_ plan, however, to ensure no incriminating information is revealed in said documents, is markedly less so. He’s hoping to at least find out more about the elusive youngest Rocks sister, to break past the pleasant facade that she wields as a weapon as deadly as Calroy’s own.

Calroy had been surprised that Sapphria had volunteered herself for the mission, had been struck with fear when she had requested him to join her. They had not been well-acquainted before this, but when asked, Sapphria had simply said she’d missed being in the field, and then, with a smirk on her lips, that working together on an assignment was the best way to get to know someone.

Calroy had not mentioned that working together on an assignment with someone you did not know was the best way to get killed. He’s almost certain she suspects something, and the thought worries him far more than he’d like to admit. He thinks that out of all of the Rocks sisters, she might be the most dangerous. Calroy’s been more than careful, but if Ciabatta or any of his goons have let something out, he’s going to skin the bread off their bones personally. If Sapphria hasn’t gotten to him first, that is.

The city walls loom above them as they approach, huge barred wafer crackers that block out the stars and hide the horizon. The lower entrance is unguarded, as predicted, lit only by a single lantern—this side of the city runs ragged, structures crumbling and decrepit. Usually golden and gleaming under the sun, the capital of Ceresia pales in its absence, sickly yellow and grainy hues betraying its war-torn corruption.

Sapphria beckons Calroy behind a grove of tortilla trees, keeping a sharp eye on the gates. As they wait, Calroy whispers, “Your highness, I have to ask, why me?”

Sapphria looks at him, head cocked. “Why not you? You’re well-versed in espionage, are you not? Loyal to Candia?”

“Of course,” Calroy lies. “But one doesn’t usually take assignments with people they don’t yet trust, especially when one is a princess.”

The corner of Sapphria’s lips tilt up. “ _Should_ I be worried about trust, Lord Cruller?”

Calroy takes the challenge as it is, looks her head on. “Perhaps.”

Sapphria’s eyes flash menacingly, but she lets out a soft laugh. “You’re right. Princesses of Candia do not work with people they do not trust. Sisters, though… well. Lazuli asked me to keep an eye on you.”

“Ah.” Calroy forces himself not to react, even though frustration flares at the pit of his stomach. It’s fitting, he thinks, that Lazuli would still be such a nuisance after her death. It’s been only a few months since the battle in Fructera, and the shadow of grief has not yet lifted from the kingdom. “I’m sorry for prying.”

But Sapphria shakes her head. “It’s not just that. Lazuli, well. Her sacrifice—“ Her voice breaks, and Calroy thinks it amusing that people soften the weight of death by refusing to say its name, “—her sacrifice reminded us all that we aren’t invincible.”

“I understand. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

Sapphria’s eyebrow raises in mischief. “Is that what you see yourself as? An enemy?”

Calroy shrugs, good-natured. “I’m speaking objectively.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. But… it also reminded me that if I don’t make the effort to know my family, they will be gone before I can say goodbye.”

She isn’t looking at him anymore, words subdued and gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. Calroy is thrown by this moment of vulnerability, feels something settle thickly in his throat that makes it difficult to speak.

“Family?” he finally gets out, soft.

“You’re family to Amethar,” she says, matter-of-fact, as if the thought doesn’t send Calroy’s heart racing. “And god knows that man loves so freely and openly, even to his own detriment. _He_ trusts you, even if I do not.”

“I hope this isn’t about to turn into a shovel talk.” Calroy says, lightly, discomfort making him fall back into jokes.

Sapphria makes a face, and then smirks, hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. “I’m hoping this mission will be shovel talk enough.”

She raises a finger to her lips, tilting her head towards the gate. A moment later, Calroy hears the scrape of chains as the kernel doors swing slowly out, and a familiar Ceresian man steps out.

Calroy freezes.

He knows this particular soldier, had met him at a Ceresian outpost last Highbright to smuggle weapons. A loyalist to Ciabatta, a thin breadstick of a man whom Calroy had thought far too indelicate and outspoken to be working undercover for anyone, let alone him. And he is almost certain that the man is not a Candian spy, else Calroy’s treachery would’ve been exposed to the Rocks months ago.

He curses under his breath as the realisation hits. It’s a set-up.

Sapphria isn’t Amethar—if Calroy is recognised, or vice versa, it will give him away in an instant. At the same time, he doesn’t know how else to explain to her that he knows this mission has gone awry. Even if he survives the ambush, he cannot risk being exposed, does not want to be thrust straight into the messy political dealings of Ceresia after spending so much time rooting himself comfortably in the Rocks’ side. He stills himself, drawing in long slow breaths. Think.

“That’s him,” Sapphria says, moving to step into the light.

Calroy grabs her arm. “Stop. Something’s wrong.”

She looks back at him questioningly, offense turning to worry at his tone.

He lowers his voice further. “Have you seen any of our Pangrano spies in person?”

Sapphria furrows her brows. “No, but I was in charge of our communications. There should be no one else here.”

“Something’s up,” Calroy says, gravely. His eyes flick back and forth to scan their surroundings, before settling on Sapphria’s eyes. Trying to sound as earnest as possible, he asks, “Look, do you trust me?”

She frowns, opening her mouth to answer, and then her eyes go wide. Something bright flashes at the corner of Calroy’s eye—Sapphria moves like lightning, grabbing his shoulder and pushing them both into the ground just as something sharp whizzes past above their heads.

Sapphria lets out a string of unroyal curses from under her breath, and then she leaps forward, movements sleek and sharp as watersteel, knife thrown from her hand and thudding into grainy flesh before their assailant even has time to register it.

“Ambush,” she breathes inanely to Calroy, who’s still on the ground recovering from shock. There’s a thudding of three—no, four footsteps around them, and then Calroy rolls, pinpoints one of their enemies’ positions and sweeps his leg out to knock them down. The soldier trips and lands with a thud, and Calroy’s knife follows, digging deep into her throat. Feet light, he spins over the corpse, whipping his arm around to throw that same knife into the back of another enemy with one fluid motion.

He rises to see Sapphria in combat with the third of their assailants, and then throws himself against the back of a tree as a fourth shouts in the distance. Something thuds into the bark behind him just as he does so, and Calroy lets out a sharp breath of relief. Unsheathing his second dagger, he pivots himself back out of cover, his blade ringing as it meets the steel of a Ceresian soldier.

Calroy smirks, even as he’s beaten back by the weight of a Ceresian gladius. These soldiers are armoured more than he is, but it becomes clear that they’re only a group of local militia—dangerous in large numbers, sure, but not individually, not against two highly-trained Candian assassins. At a disadvantage in the dark and weighed down by their armour, the soldier Calroy fights only barely holds his own, and his haggard attacks are parried with ease. Calroy steadies his feet, anticipates the next strike and twists around it smoothly, using the momentum to slam the hilt of his dagger hard into the man’s helmet. Thrown off-balance, it only takes a single well-placed kick to his back to send him sprawling forward, before a dagger is buried into his neck.

“Duck!” comes a voice from behind him, and Calroy obeys, just as a shimmering blue knife shoots forward, burying itself hilt-deep in the chest of another Ceresian attempting to sneak up behind him. He looks back up just as Sapphria, bloody and vicious, grabs his arm and drags him running for the hills, away from the city.

“Too many of them,” she says, panting. “Get out of here.”

Calroy nods in agreement, falling into step behind her as they zig-zag their way back the way they came. A shadow moves up ahead—Calroy only just manages to shout a warning before Sapphria spins, plants her feet, and leaps towards it, so fast he can barely see her. The Princess is lighter on her feet than even he is, meeting her attacker face on and striking viper-like in her movements. Knowing she’d lost both her knives in their previous fight, Calroy moves to help, but Sapphria’s taken her opponent down in an instant, using his own weight and power against him until he’s slammed back to the ground, unconscious.

Calroy whistles. “Impressive.”

“Go!” Sapphria says, exasperated, and starts running again for the lake, Calroy following close behind.

They finally stop to rest at the shore, taking cover behind the carbonara mangroves and pausing their escape. The waters remain as still as when they had left it, and the night just as silent. There’s no sign of their pursuers.

“Damnit,” Sapphria swears, a moment later, rubbing her eyes. “That was my favourite dagger.”

Calroy lets out a delirious laugh, doubled over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Bulb above. That was close.”

He gestures towards Sapphria’s bloody clothes. “Any of that yours?”

She shakes her head.

“Well,” Calroy says. “So much for the plan.” He’s both grateful and frustrated that the night had been too chaotic to retrieve most anything. Anything, he thinks, except that he knows Sapphria a little better, perhaps. The Rocks’ greatest strength and greatest weakness: family.

“So much for the plan,” Sapphria repeats, agreeing. Then, “How’d you know it was an ambush?”

Calroy swallows. “I don’t know. The way that Ceresian held himself… it felt off. We got lucky.”

“Lucky indeed.” Sapphria doesn’t look convinced by his flimsy excuse; Calroy didn’t expect her to be. But she drops the subject, brows furrowing. “They knew we were coming. That’s eight months of work down the drain.”

“Sure,” Calroy says. “But watching you take down that soldier unarmed? I took your shovel talk to heart, at least.”

Sapphria barks out a laugh, punching him lightly on the shoulder. “Mission success?”

Calroy grins back, meeting her eyes mirthfully even as his thoughts race, cataloguing the threat Sapphria poses to him like files in his head. There is a truth that settles at the forefront of it: acting while Sapphria’s alive means certain doom. But, if there’s anything the war has taught Calroy, death is not so far away as people like to think.

He smiles. “Mission success.”

Calroy has seen General Rococoa Rocks many, many times before, of course. Or rather, he has felt her presence long before he has ever met her, standing at the head of her troops, forging a warpath across the trenches, steady as her namesake, blunt and unyielding.

It is fitting, he thinks, that he meets her properly in battle.

Calroy stumbles, only just manages to swing his sword up to parry a blow from the Vegetanian barbarian above him. He grunts, pushes his weight behind it to shunt the blade to the side, and then darts underneath the soldier to plunge his foil into his exposed chest. His feet slip dangerously against the unsteady ground. This deep into Vegetania, the tropical rains are ferocious, turning the battlefield into a slippery mud-soaked trough. Fighting light and quick as he usually does is impossible, and Calroy is struggling to win in a battle of pure strength.

Calroy’s troops were meant to flank the Vegetanian forces along the Pilgrim’s Road while the Candian’s main infantry attacked them head-on. Instead, they’d been misinformed about the sheer number of Vegetanian soldiers, and now he’s fighting for his life under the sunless deafening rains of the Verduran Forest, dark green shoots twisting up amongst the mud and blocking out the sky like sunken effigies. He can hardly hear himself think against the pounding wetness, can hardly differentiate his troops from the trees that bend and sway under the violent winds. The earth itself seemed to meld seamlessly into sky, the certainty of the horizon made imaginary beneath the chaos.

Amethar, who’d usually be fighting at his side, had been sent to command the main forces, and Calroy finds himself sorely missing that presence at his back. Of course he only ever finds himself free from Amethar when he needs him—brute strength is something that Amethar has in plenty. Calroy wipes fruitlessly at his soaking face to clean it from mud, and suspects he only makes it worse. He plows onwards, eyes searching for a better vantage point against all the rain, only to feel something crash into him with all the force of a battering ram.

Calroy is thrown to the ground, sword skidding from his hand as he lands, hard.

An enormous parsnip soldier looms above him, and it’s all Calroy can do to roll to the side as her axe arcs down, cleaving the ground just where he was. He swears, pulling his last dagger from its sheath at his calf, feet slipping beneath him as he tries to pull himself back up. The soldier lifts her axe again, but Calroy leaps forward before she can strike, wrestling her into the ground in a savage fight of survival, all dignity out the window. They roll across the mud, but for all Calroy’s skill he is not strong, and she ends up on top of him, fists raised to beat him down. Calroy’s dagger is trapped between her thigh and his leg, time-slowing down as he frantically tries to shove her off, to plunge the blade between her ribs before she kills him.

There’s a sickening cracking noise, and then the soldier on top of Calroy lets out a heavy grunt, falling listless to the side. He gasps, shoves the body off him in a panic, and notices only the chocolate club embedded in her skull before there’s an armoured hand offered to him.

Calroy looks up—General Rococoa stands rooted to the ground in front of him, stance unwavering against the whipping winds, hand out to help him up.

He grasps it, shocked as she pulls him to his feet. Around him, Candian reinforcements charge through the forest, the pink and brown armour of Rococoa’s troops rushing to aid his own. Calroy catches his breath, relief flooding his limbs.

“You okay, soldier?” Rococoa shouts, voice cutting through the thundering rain like a knife.

Calroy nods, can barely manage to shout his assent as his feet struggle to find purchase in the mud. He’s panting heavily, breathing in as much rainwater as air at this point, the whole left side of his body aching like fire from his tumble. Rococoa cocks her head at him, unconvinced for obvious reasons, and then pulls his arm over her shoulder, marching him relentlessly forward.

Shame roars up in Calroy, and he forces his mouth to work. “Thank you, General.”

She nods, a sharp mechanical movement. Her eyes search his face, and recognition lights on her features a moment later. “I know you,” she says, slowly. “Calroy, isn’t it?”

Calroy’s eyebrows raise in surprise, though in retrospect, he probably shouldn’t be. “Yes. Calroy Cruller.”

“The boy from Muffinfield,” Rococoa muses. “Amethar talks about you a lot.”

“Does he.” Calroy says. He doesn’t know quite what to do with that information.

“Yes,” Rococoa says. “He was very insistent on sending reinforcements here, once we realised our mistake. Had to stop him from rushing in himself by promising I’d go.”

She gives him a scrutinising look. “He’s fond of you.”

Calroy nods, and refuses betray anything. “Thank you. I don’t know how much longer we would have lasted.”

“Not long,” Rococoa says, but not mean-spirited. A fact, solid and true. “We miscalculated. I apologise. You held your own out there.”

Calroy looks at Rococoa in surprise. There’s sincere regret in her voice—she cares for the lives she risks. Pestered by Amethar or not, with the main skirmish coming to a head, she could have easily left them to die.

Rococoa forges on through the mud, steps steady and unrelenting even as the gale whips back her white hair. Calroy leans on her, building up the energy to walk on his own again; he’s lucky not to have any broken bones as far as he can tell, just a whole lot of bruising.

There’s a splintering crash, the sound of approaching footsteps, and Rococoa’s tilts her head ever so slightly to the side.

“Can you walk?” she asks.

Calroy nods, moves to stand on his own.

“Go. The Candian outpost is just north of here. The rest of the family is waiting there. Stay strong; the worst is over,” she says, voice firm, and despite the torrent, amidst the pain and chaos, Calroy still finds himself believing it.

“Good fighting, soldier.” Rococoa nods, and then she’s off, barrelling through the trees to meet her next opponent. Calroy turns to run, but not before watching her cut through the Vegetanian knight, movements swift and calculated. The General fights like there isn’t room for mistake, blunt force funnelled into precise strikes. It’s like seeing a mountain move, center of gravity rooted into the ground as she advances, even as her sword flashes like lightning around her. Calroy feels the weight of her presence just from watching; it is only now he recognises that the heavy stance Amethar carries in battle comes no doubt from her.

He tears his eyes away, running north as Rococoa had told him to, aching limbs driven forward by her orders. Here, the bristling undergrowth of the Verduran clears a little, brightening the ground around him. Calroy runs until he reaches the end of the forest, encountering little adversity; he has a feeling Rococoa has drawn away the bulk of it.

He stops to catch his breath only when the Candian camp comes into view, and doubles over at the edge of the clearing, coughing mud and blood onto the ground. Somewhat of a humiliating first meeting to the heir to the throne of Candia, he thinks, the biggest obstacle between him and any kind of plan he might have for power. He breathes heavy, air rattling in his lungs as he takes in the encounter, faces Rococoa’s strength from up close. Candia would stand as long as Rococoa could lead it—three years into the war, and the frustrating certainty of that remains as true as ever.

Calroy sighs, and again tries to wipe the mud and dirt from his face, sleeves damp but drying under the emerging sun. No. What rattles him is that—she’d known about him. Called him family. It doesn’t matter, never has—and still that wet, choking sensation refuses to leave his chest.

Wipes once more, mud smearing across his face in a mess. There’s a shout from the camp; someone’s seen him.

“Cal!”

 _Amethar’s_ seen him. The man runs up, carrying a cloak that’s almost the size of Calroy himself, practically drowning him in it when he places it around his shoulders. He looks worried, but Calroy does his best to flash him a reassuring grin.

The cloak is warm; he holds it tightly. Cleans the mud off his face successfully this time, the dry cloth soaking up the filth from his clothes. Takes a breath. Another. The tight sensation around his chest does not leave, and neither does Amethar, who tries not to dote as they make their way to his tent.

Citrina and her fellow healers bustle in and out of the royal tent, which has opened its partitions to help shelter people from the wind. Sapphria gives him a nod as she passes, no doubt to meet with Candian scouts; in her hands are Lazuli’s old missives, probably filled with anticipated instruction.

Rococoa wasn’t lying—the rest of the family waits beneath the regal purple banners—

Calroy grits his teeth, clears his throat as if can get rid of that suffocating feeling. Clenches his fist hard enough to break skin, until the pain leaks through the numbness that has seized his extremities.

It doesn’t matter. Never has.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! come yell at me about calroy and the rocks family on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/kindlestuck) or my [tumblr](https://kindlespark.tumblr.com)!


End file.
